Suddenly, the artillery stopped. Oh shit, I thought. The only reason for the artillery to cut off now was that the PLA tanks and infantry were coming back. Anyone emerging onto the streets now would be cut down in a hail of Ak-2000 fire.
Triggering my radio to all Airborne soldiers in the area, I said, “PLA infantry incoming. Ready yourselves.”
One more tactical insight came to me in a flash. I continued my transmission, “We aren’t going to wait for them to start throwing grenades and flashbangs. Wait for my order — then come out guns blazing and run for the south.”
Acknowledgments streamed in. Lieutenant Barker radioed her response to the whole company. She had been one of the officers who misunderstood my order to fire intermittently on the PLA infantry, but she had somehow survived the fighting to that point. She understood my argument without hearing a word of it.
“Let’s take a few of the bastards with us, sir.”
In my building, twenty Airborne soldiers assembled in the small reception area by the front door, and ten more were upstairs with me watching the PLA approach. They anxiously looked over their rifles, flicking off safeties and tapping magazines to ensure they were full. The anti-tank soldiers ensured that their Javelin or AT-4 missiles were armed and ready to fire.
I radioed downstairs to Lieutenant Williams. “I’d ask if you know how to get where you’re going, but I don’t think you’ll have trouble with the navigation.”
A nervous laugh. “Only one direction to remember: head south, sir.”
“That’s right,” I said as calmly as possible. “Just make sure the men keep moving, no matter what. The tanks will be on them pretty quickly.”
“Yes, sir.” There was an awkward pause, neither of us knowing what else to say.
Finally, I concluded the conversation: “Tell Brown he’s an asshole when you see him. Empathy Four out.”
Only moments left. One by one, the eyes of the anti-tank soldiers turned to me. An awkward pause ensued. It seemed like a time when a commander is supposed to give his best Henry V imitation and say “Once more unto the breach.” The night was even lightening with the arrival of dawn, the perfect time for an inspiring speech. The best I could muster was:
“Hit them hard and we might make it through this shit.”
A few nods, a lot of deep breaths. Here we go.
Seventy PLA soldiers stormed out of the building they had captured. Looking over the woods as the edge of Farmers’ Ridge, I could see at least another two-hundred men with Ak-2000’s sprinting in.
As luck would have it, about forty of the attackers came straight for my building. I radioed to the men downstairs. “Come out two seconds after you hear us open fire upstairs, then run for the south.”
Sporadic shots sounded from the streets, as the PLA sought to suppress the fire from the windows, a tactic that would have helped if the Airborne soldiers were not all on the ground floor of their buildings, waiting to burst out.
The forty PLA soldiers coming for my building arrived and began heading for the various entrances. It was time.
I stood up behind the window and fired down on the Chinese on the street. I had fired only four shots when a Chinese sniper fired at me from the woods. There must have been a sudden gust of wind, because the round barely missed to my left, sending white splinters flying from the painted wall.
The Airborne soldiers on the ground floor heard my shots and threw open the doors. They tossed three grenades to the right, toward the incoming Chinese soldiers, then drew up their rifles.
Whatever the PLA infantry had been expecting, this apparently wasn’t it. They were used to being on the offensive, and while they didn’t lack for courage, the Americans they were fighting hadn’t shown a semblance of aggressiveness since the battle began.
Caught in the open, many of the PLA infantry had the instinct to fall flat to the ground, reducing their vulnerability to grenade fragments. The PLA soldiers lacking that instinct — about seven of the forty approaching my building — were cut down by shrapnel from the grenades. Another two died despite falling prone to the ground, the shrapnel from the grenades lancing down into their heads.
The Airborne soldiers emerged from my building at the concussion of the grenade. The first man out the door immediately began firing on the prone Chinese soldiers on the ground, who took a precious second or two to react.
By that time, the rest of the Airborne soldiers in the hamlet were pouring out of their own buildings onto the street, and a furious, chaotic firefight took place in the streets. With Chinese snipers in the woods and the sheer number of PLA infantry, it was not a one-sided battle by any stretch of the imagination. Enough Airborne took to the streets, however, to make it a short battle. Fifteen more Airborne soldiers died and eleven sustained serious wounds, but the streets were cleared of Chinese infantry inside of two minutes. More PLA infantry were inbound from the woods.
“Get to Citadel, now!” I shouted over the radio. As soon as the commander of the PLA tanks was certain the Chinese infantry had been wiped out, those tanks would open fire on the retreating Airborne soldiers. Sure enough, when about half of the Airborne soldiers in the hamlet were beyond the last building to the south, seven PLA tanks emerged into view over the crest of Farmers’ Ridge.
An anti-tank missile operator to my right fired an AT-4 at the lead Chinese Type 99 tank. A defense system on the PLA tank detonated the AT-4 about five meters from the tank. Without even slowing down, the Type 99’s turret swiveled to point directly at my building, and its muzzle erupted in flame.
I threw myself to the floor of the apartment, waiting for the tank shell to smash into the room and kill me.
Nothing happened. I looked up. Still alive.
After a moment, I heard the anti-tank soldier to my right scream and looked over to see him pointing out the window.
Peeking above the rim, I saw three Type 99’s ripped apart and smoking, and the other four urgently backing up. As I watched, three more missiles streaked in from the woods. The Chinese tanks’ missile defense systems did nothing to impede their progress, and I saw that where the missiles impacted on the tanks, a second smaller explosion was visible. One tank simply exploded, its turret launched into the sky on a pillar of flame. Another burst out in smoke, its crew incinerated. The last two tanks shifted into reverse and began speeding back down the hill, only to be hit with three more missiles that conclusively wiped out the armored assault on Farmers’ Ridge.
Of all the things I saw that day, the invincible Type 99’s burning just outside of the hamlet at Farmers’ Ridge was the only one I would call a miracle. But what were the missiles that had taken out the Chinese tanks and, more importantly, who had fired them?
I backed away from the window and stood up. To the anti-tank soldiers next to me, I said, “Join the others running back to Citadel. Hurry, before the Chinese send more reinforcements up.”
“What are you going to do, sir?” one of them asked me.
“I’m going to find out who the hell just saved our lives.”
The anti-tank soldiers hurried downstairs and ran after their comrades. I stayed by the window and waited. The rising sun illuminated the streets of the town, and I saw Farmers’ Ridge for the first time in the light of day. Off to the northwest, I could see the skyscrapers of Taipei, and it occurred to me that Farmers’ Ridge was beautiful, in its way.
After a few minutes, three men emerged from the woods. Each had what looked like an ordinary AT-4 missile launcher slung over his back and a Taiwanese T97 assault rifle. In place of uniforms, they wore dark civilian clothes with bulletproof vests on the outside. Two of the three were tall, blond, and lean, the last shorter, brown-haired, and solidly built.